Stay
by Sara Wolfe
Summary: This time, it's not just another case.
1. Infection

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Certain parts are taken from Euphoria.

**Author's Note: **This lovely little plot bunny is the result of a conversation on the TWoP boards: what if Wilson had been infected during Euphoria? Many, many thanks to** GranTorino **for coming up with such an awesome scenario.

**Stay**

**Chapter One: Infection**

"Cop with a sense of humor. Differential diagnosis?"

Walking into the conference room, House waited until Chase had dropped his newspaper before tossing his ducklings each a copy of the patient's file.

"Guy's in the ER bleeding on everybody," he added, as they gave the files a quick once-over.

"Drugs," Foreman piped up, smirking.

"He's a cop," Chase protested.

"Good point," Foreman replied. "How about drugs?"

"Tox screen was clean," House interjected, as Chase heaved a put-upon sigh. "He did, however, get hit by a bullet. Just mentioning."

"He was shot?" Cameron demanded.

"No," House snarked, "somebody threw it at him."

"I'm thinking trauma," Chase spoke up. "He's got bullet fragments lodged in his brain."

"According to Babyshoes," Foreman said, reading from the chart, "the cop was laughing before he got shot."

"Babyshoes?" Cameron asked, skeptically.

"The guy who shot him," Foreman told her.

"Reliable witness," she muttered.

"His name's Babyshoes; how bad can he be?" House said.

He gestured impatiently, and Cameron handed him a pair of x-ray films, which he attached to the light board.

"Fragments are in the wrong part of the brain to cause euphoria," he informed the ducklings. "So let's expand the search, factor in the cough and the cloudy lungs."

"Why are we ignoring the elevated heart rate?" Chase asked.

"Because he's in shock," Cameron said, as though the answer should be obvious.

"What if his heart rate was already elevated before he got shot?" Chase asked, ignoring his colleague's attempt at sarcasm.

"You mean after the footrace?" Foreman asked, skeptically.

"He's giddy," Chase continued, "indicates a blockage of oxygen. Carbon monoxide would elevate the heart rate, causing coughing and impairing his neurological functions."

He turned to House for confirmation, but the other doctor was busy studying the CT films.

"He got carbon monoxide poisoning outdoors?" Cameron asked, her latest attempt at sarcasm coming closer than before.

"Yeah," House finally spoke up, "all 'cause those bastards didn't ratify Kyoto. Or, he got carbon monoxide poisoning indoors, and then moved outdoors before he inhaled enough to make him drop dead."

Turning to Chase, he continued, "Test his arterial blood gases. If his carboxyhemoglobin levels are higher than fifteen percent, stick him in a hyperbaric chamber."

"You," he added, turning to Foreman, "go check the cop car for gas leaks."

"If it was the cop car, his partner would be sick," Foreman pointed out.

"Well, maybe she is," House said. "She just doesn't have as good a sense of humor. Also, check his personal car, his work, his home."

"What about you?" Cameron asked, as they were getting up to leave.

"I'm going to be checking the precinct," House informed her.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

Foreman shrugged into his jacket as he walked down the halls, the mystery of the giggling cop still on his mind. He was so lost in thought, he didn't realize he'd run into someone until the other person grunted in pain.

He dragged himself back to reality in time to see Wilson picking himself slowly up off the floor.

"You rushing off to a hot date, or something?" the oncologist asked, wryly.

"Sorry about that," Foreman apologized, helping him to his feet. "New case."

"And you get to break into their home and invade their privacy?" Wilson surmised.

"Something like that, yeah," Foreman answered. "And his cars, and the places he routinely visits in the course of his work."

"Sounds like you've got a full plate," Wilson remarked. "Why don't you let me take the patient's home for you?"

"Wait, you?" Foreman asked, in disbelief.

"Who do you think taught House to pick a lock?" Wilson confided.

At Foreman's absolutely flabbergasted look, he continued, "It comes in handy when you're invading your brother's privacy and don't want him to know about it."

"You know how to pick locks," Foreman repeated, still amazed at this new information about the mild-mannered Dr. Wilson.

"What am I looking for at the patient's home?" Wilson asked, not willing to be deterred from his mission.

"Uh, evidence of carbon monoxide poisoning, mainly," Foreman answered. "Other than that, anything that looks suspicious, such as-"

"I know what House considers useful evidence," Wilson interrupted him. "So, where is this place, anyway?"

Foreman told him, and then narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Wait, why are you so gung ho about offering to break into a patient's home?" he asked.

"One, I have no appointments of my own, at the moment," Wilson told him. "And two, Cuddy's on the warpath, and I'd like to be as far away as possible when all hell breaks loose."

Foreman smirked, understanding the feeling, perfectly.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

"Blood tests confirmed you have low level carbon monoxide poisoning. We're putting you inside a high pressure chamber that-"

Chase cut off his monologue as he realized he was being ignored. Joe, still giggling wildly, was currently toying with the monitors attached to his chest.

"And you really don't care, do you?" he finished, sighing in exasperation.

"Do you live near a gas line?" Cameron broke in, speaking louder than normal to gain Joe's attention.

"Yeah, me after a huge enchilada," Joe answered, bursting into laughter at his own hilarity.

Chase found himself having to smother a laugh of his own with a hasty cough, and Cameron shot him a dirty look.

"Is there anything toxic that you have in your home?" he asked, recovering quickly. "Any paint solvents, anything unhygienic?"

"Uh, no," Joe answered. "I keep a pretty clean home."

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

Wilson was sure he'd never seen any place as dirty as the one he was in. It was a pigsty.

_'Worse than a pigsty,'_ he thought, a second later. _'Calling this place a pigsty is an insult to pigs.'_

He grimaced as he reached out with a gloved hand to pick up a paper plate that had mold growing on it. Breathing as shallowly as he could, he quickly deposited it into a sample bag, dumping it into the trash bag at his feet.

He moved through the rest of the house that way, collecting samples of anything and everything he came across. Soon, the trash bag was nearly full of sample bags, and he left it behind as he climbed out of the window onto the balcony.

Spying a nearby gas valve, he examined it, but could find no sign of a gas leak. Turning around, he saw a section of the wall that jutted out more than the rest, almost like a gate.

He pulled on it, to have it swing open in his grip, revealing a low-lit room, beyond. Stepping cautiously inside, he found himself looking at rows upon rows of marijuana plants.


	2. False Alarm

**Author's Note: **After I got done writing, I realized that Foreman comes across as an absolute ass. Sorry about that.

**Chapter Two: False Alarm**

"Now, if you have any trouble breathing, just press this button and the chamber will decompress."

Joe looked puzzled for a second as he stared at the button that Cameron held out to him. Then, he grinned and grabbed at it.

"Like this?" he asked, pressing the button, wildly.

"Not now," Chase said, irritated. "If you have trouble in the hyperbaric chamber."

"I think it's broken," Joe said, ignoring him as he continued to push the button.

"If you have trouble, we'll push the button for you," Chase told him, taking the button back.

The cop giggled at that, then grimaced in pain as his hand suddenly twitched inward.

"Ouch!" he cried.

"Muscle contracture," Cameron observed.

"Did that hurt?" Chase asked, leaning over to examine him.

"No, not at all," Joe assured him. "Looks cool though, doesn't it?"

Fascinated, he watched his hand twitch as though it had a mind of its own.

"You're losing motor function because your brain's not getting enough oxygen," Chase explained. "We need to start you in the chamber right away."

He nodded at Cameron, and they began to slide Joe into the hyperbaric chamber.

"Should I be scared?" Joe asked, still laughing, sounding anything but.

"Don't worry," Cameron assured him. "It's probably just a carbon monoxide leak in your home. We've got someone there, checking it out now."

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

"So, how was the cop's house?"

"I've seen cleaner landfills," Wilson said, as he caught up to Foreman at the hospital's entrance.

"What a surprise," Foreman muttered, sarcastically.

"I take it you don't like this guy?" Wilson guessed.

"Guy's a dirty cop," Foreman replied. "Did you find anything?"

"No carbon monoxide leaks that I could find," Wilson said. "But I found plenty for you to test."

He handed the garbage bag over to Foreman, who winced as he hefted it.

"What'd you do, take the kitchen sink?" he grumbled.

"Guy had a lot of trash," Wilson told him. "And I found one other thing. A greenhouse on his roof with his own little marijuana garden."

"I knew it," Foreman said. "Guy's just high."

Wilson chuckled, softly, and Foreman shot him a look. Then, he shrugged it off as inconsequential.

"Thanks a lot, man," he told Wilson. "You saved me a lot of time."

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

"The place is a cesspool," Foreman said, as he walked with House down to the patient's room.

"I've got samples, but I doubt I need to test any of it," he added, dismissing Wilson's hard work in an instant.

"Nope, waste of time," House replied, for once not sarcastic.

"You know about the marijuana?" Foreman asked, skeptically.

"I've heard rumors since high school," House said, flippantly.

"The cop's acting high because he is high," Foreman responded. "He's got-"

"Legionnaire's Disease," House finished, to Foreman's astonished look. "It's a good thing Joe got shot, else the whole precinct might have been wiped out. Anarchy in the streets."

"It takes forty-eight hours to confirm a diagnosis of Legionnaires," Foreman reminded him.

"And only two seconds to realize that the symptoms fit while staring at the rancid, unchanged water of the air conditioning unit."

"Marijuana explains the high carboxy, the cloudy lungs, and the happiness," Foreman argued.

"Pot doesn't explain how he's gotten worse since he's been admitted," House countered. "Why don't we agree to disagree? Or, we'll agree that you disagree while treating him for Legionnaires. It's not as pithy, but it gets the point across."

He walked off, leaving Foreman alone in the hallway.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

"I feel a lot better," Joe said, as Foreman monitored his condition. "I think those meds you gave me are working."

"Heart rate's normal," Foreman told him. "COHB levels are down, there's no fever. I need you to take some deep breaths for me."

Joe complied, and then angled a look at Foreman.

"You seem disappointed," he commented.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," Foreman said, noncommittally.

"You don't seem to like cops, much," Joe observed.

"Please don't talk," Foreman responded.

"In my experience," Joe continued, as Chase walked in, "people who don't like cops usually have a reason."

"I need you not to talk," Foreman repeated.

"Those clouded areas of the upper lobes," Chase broke in, gesturing to the films set up on the light board, "they're the infiltrates we found yesterday."

"And they're not there anymore, right?" Joe asked, anxiously.

"They've cleared up," Chase informed him. "You had Legionnaires, and now you don't."

"So, um, you didn't find anything out at my place?" Joe asked.

Foreman glanced up at that, and saw Joe staring at the far wall, rather than at him or Chase.

"Nothing medically relevant," he said, slowly.

"So, there's nothing that I need to worry about, then," Joe said, relief in his voice.

He looked in the direction of Foreman's voice as he spoke, but ended up looking over his shoulder, instead. Acting on a hunch, Foreman moved over to Joe's side.

"Not this time," he said, in answer to Joe's question.

As he spoke, he flipped the light board over, so that the films could no longer be seen.

"What are you doing?" Chase asked, confused.

"Just making sure he sees what's involved," Foreman replied, mildly. "What we found was fairly advanced, these cloudy areas here. These parts of your lungs simply weren't functioning."

He gestured to the blank back of the light board as he spoke, only to have Joe nod, as though Foreman's actions and words made sense. Foreman exchanged a worried glance with Chase. He waved a hand in front of Joe's eyes, but received no response.

"My lungs are okay, right?" Joe asked, suddenly. "Everything's okay, now?"

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

"He really thinks he can see," Chase said.

The team had gathered back in the conference room, to discuss Joe's new symptom.

"He can physically see," Foreman clarified. "His brain just can't process the images.

"No chance this is a practical joke?" House asked, skepticism in his voice.

"No way," Foreman replied. "This is definitely Anton's Blindness, which indicates damage to both occipital lobes."

"It must be from the trauma," Cameron commented, causing House to snort.

"Bullet fragments just happened to hit the same spot on both lobes?" he remarked.

"A stroke could cause both Anton's Blindness and euphoria," Chase spoke up. "And it's a lot more likely."

"He's clotting in his brain," House agreed. "Start heparin to thin the blood, find the clot, and yank it out."

"The clot would have to be at the top of the bilateral vertebral arteries," Foreman protested.

"Great!" House exclaimed. "Chase stick your fingers in there and dig around until you find it. Oh, wait," he continued, over Cameron's shocked gasp, "when you turn him into a vegetable, there's gonna be frivolous lawsuits. You know what would be better? Contrast MRI. Think you can do that?"

"We can't do an MRI," Chase protested. "The bullet will rip his brains apart, if it's magnetic."

"Let's flip a coin," House suggested. "Heads, MRI. Tails, he dies."

"Police-issue Kevlar vests don't shatter a bullet, they just catch it," Foreman spoke up. "Which the bullet shattered on its own, indicating that it was a thirty-eight caliber hollow point, which, unfortunately, are ferromagnetic."

The room was uncharacteristically silent after his announcement, and then House grinned.

"It is just so cool that you know that," he told Foreman.

"We could do an angio to find the clotting," Cameron put in for consideration.

"Waste of time," House said, dismissively. "The skull creates too much artifact; you'll never get a good view."

"It's the next best thing to an MRI," Chase protested.

"And a waste of time," House repeated.

"An angio would show-" Foreman began, only to be cut off mid-sentence by House throwing his hands into the air.

"It's a coup," he grumbled. "Fine. Do your angio. And when that doesn't turn up anything, come meet me in the morgue."

He stalked off, leaving his team standing around, until Chase voiced what was on all their minds.

"What could possibly be in the morgue?"

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

"We're going to snake a femoral catheter up your leg and into your brain so that we can check for clots."

As she spoke, Cameron was helping Joe to get comfortable on the table, which made Foreman snort derisively as he grabbed a lead apron off the rack.

"Keep this on throughout the procedure," he instructed, draping it across Joe's abdomen and legs, "unless the pot has already made you sterile."

"I've got a stressful job," Joe protested. "You got no idea."

"I grew up with cops like you," Foreman informed him. "One part bully, nine parts hypocrite."

"Foreman, can I talk to you?" Cameron asked, suddenly.

He nodded and followed her into the control room, where she began to lay into him.

"What is the matter with you?" she demanded, furiously.

"Just having some fun," Foreman told her, grinning easily.

"That man is sick and scared," Cameron snapped.

"That man's a crooked cop," Foreman retorted.

"Maybe you should take yourself off the case," Cameron suggested.

"You don't have to like someone to be their doctor," Foreman told her.

She glared at him, and he relented a little bit. Pressing a button on the intercom, he began to speak.

"Hey, how you doing there, buddy?" he asked Joe, who looked up reflexively at the speakers. "Just sit still and we'll have you up and scaring the crap out of people in no time."

Clicking the intercom off, he smiled at Cameron.

"Happy now?"

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

Down in the morgue, Chase, Cameron, and Foreman were looking over the results of the just-completed angiogram while House hunted through the drawers, looking at all the bodies in turn.

"What are you looking for?" Chase finally asked, when it became evident that House was going to offer no explanation for his bizarre behavior.

"I called my mom and she didn't pick up," House replied, still checking the drawers. "What did the angio tell us?"

"That Foreman should be off this case," Cameron said, shooting her colleague a dirty look.

"He's a neurologist," House reminded her, "unless you think the patient's optic nerve is in his spleen."

"He doesn't like cops," Cameron protested.

"I was just busting the guy's chops," Foreman replied instantly.

"See? Foreman is essential to solving this case." House said. "Now, medically, what did the angio tell us?"

"There appears to be some clotting around the Circle of Willis," Chase told him. "And, based on the progression of symptoms, it appears to be growing. We should go in and-"

"Saying there appears to be clotting is like saying there appears to be a traffic jam up ahead on the freeway," House broke in. "Is it a ten car pileup, or just a really slow bus in the center lane? And if it is a bus, is it an embolic bus or a thrombotic bus?"

At the confused looks on his team's faces, he added, "I think I pushed that metaphor too far."

He opened one last drawer and, seemingly satisfied by what he saw, began rummaging through a bag he was carrying.

"The angio can't tell us all that," Foreman told him.

"So, you're saying it was useless," House asked.

"It gave us some information without killing him," Foreman said, defensively.

"Not enough information," House said. "And you don't know that an MRI is going to kill him."

"The bullets have a ferromagnetic base!" Foreman exclaimed.

"Little fragments aren't going anywhere," House said, dismissively, putting ear plugs in his ears.

"Maybe it's worth attempting surgery to remove the fragments," Chase suggested, but House cut him off.

"Surgeons say inoperable, and the patient's on blood thinners," he said. "Other than that, perfect plan.

The next item out of his bag was a small handgun, which made his team instinctively draw back a step.

"You got a better plan?" Cameron asked, almost fearful of the response she'd receive.

"Much," House responded.

He pointed the gun at the corpse, prompting the other doctors to cover their ears, and then he pulled the trigger. A thunderous boom echoed throughout the room, and then a lab tech sprinted in.

"Did you just hear-"

"I shot him; he's dead," House informed the now-frazzled man, pointing at the bullet-ridden corpse.

Cameron and Chase shot their boss incredulous looks. Foreman just smirked.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

Chase and Foreman wheeled the corpse into the MRI suite, with House and Cameron following behind.

"Bullet's identical to the one Babyshoes popped Joe with," House was explaining, as Chase and Foreman maneuvered the corpse into the machine. "Let's see how magnetic it is."

"The bullet split into four fragments, no exit wounds," Cameron reported. "It won't be as precise as an x-ray."

"How unprofessional was Foreman?" House asked, changing the subject.

"Ask him yourself, he's right here," Foreman interjected, disgustedly. House continued to ignore him.

"Better than you, worse than usual," Cameron told him. "He berated Joe for being a bad cop."

"Berated or humiliated?" House asked.

"I didn't realize I'd need my thesaurus," Cameron replied.

"One implied he took pleasure in the act," House informed her. "I want to know if this was giddiness, or misplaced black anger."

"Wait a minute," Foreman cut in, angrily. "You think I'm sick?"

"I think an appropriate response to watching your boss shoot a corpse is not to grin foolishly," House retorted.

"I am not sick!" Foreman protested. "I can't be!"

"You visited the guy's home, didn't you?" House reminded him. "You may have been exposed to whatever he's got."

For a moment, was ready to protest, but then kept his mouth shut. After all, what quicker way to get in trouble with the boss than to admit that he hadn't done his own job?

Wilson's face floated to the front of his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. Wilson wasn't going to get sick. No one was going to get sick.


	3. In Sickness

**Chapter Three: In Sickness**

"You think I'm sick?" Foreman demanded, again, hardly believing his ears.

"Isn't that what I just said?" House asked.

"Maybe I've just grown bored of your antics," Foreman fired back.

"Well, I haven't," a new voice spoke up, before House could retaliate.

They turned to see Cuddy standing in the doorway to the morgue, her arms crossed over her chest and a scowl firmly fixed on her face.

"And I can't wait to hear the backwards logic you used to rationalize shooting a corpse," she added.

"Well, if I shot a live person, there'd be a lot more paperwork," House replied.

"Then you won't mind standing next to this poor guy's casket at the wake, explaining to the family why a cancer patient has a bullet hole in his head?" Cuddy asked.

"He donated his body to science," House defended himself. "If I hadn't shot him, he'd have spent the next five years as a carpool dummy for first year medical students."

"We're all set, here," Chase interrupted, from where he and Foreman had finished positioning the corpse in the MRI machine.

"House, do not turn that on," Cuddy said, warningly.

"You're just mad that I put a bullet in his head," House told her. "The worst I'm doing now is taking it out."

He flipped the power switch for the MRI. For a moment, it emitted its normal humming noise, indicating that all was going well. Then, just as House was turning to Cuddy with a triumphant smile on his face, the machine made a terrible screeching noise and the body inside jerked upward.

The lights in the room flickered on and off as a violent spray of blood coated the inside of the machine. There was a small plinking sound as the bullet fragments that had been briefly attached to the MRI fell, no longer under the machine's magnetic attraction. House's smug expression turned to one of sheepish guilt.

"My bad."

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

Wilson couldn't believe his ears. He'd just run into a practically terrified morgue tech who claimed to have witnessed House shooting a corpse. And then a radiology tech who informed him that House's team had put the corpse into the MRI--and subsequently broke it.

Although, the more he thought about it, the less bizarre it seemed. This was House, after all.

"Dr. Wilson?"

His secretary's sharp voice intruded upon his thoughts, and he turned to face her.

"Yes, Marilyn?" he asked, bringing himself back to the here and now.

"Connor Scott is here for his consultation," she informed him. "He's waiting in your office."

Connor Scott. One of his patients that he would never forget, not that any of them ever went completely away.

Barely nineteen years old, the young man had been diagnosed five years ago with a brain tumor. He'd been in and out of the hospital at least once a week for various treatments, none of which had any lasting effect on the tumor.

Now, Connor had finally consented to surgery to try and remove the tumor. The only problem with his decision was that it was too late. The tumor had, despite all their best efforts, grown so large as to be inoperable. Connor was going to die when he most wanted to live.

_'The ultimate irony,'_ Wilson thought, smirking.

Then, he schooled his rebellious features into a somber mask as he entered his office.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

House sat in front of Cuddy's desk, idly tapping his cane on the floor. Foreman and Cameron stood on either side of him, the former smirking, the latter twisting her hands, nervously. Cuddy sat behind her desk, glaring at all three of them.

Seconds passed, feeling like hours, as the tension in the room continued to build. Cuddy's expression kept getting darker and darker, like she wanted to do something very painful to House.

Finally, just when it looked as though Cuddy would leap up and wrap her hands around House's neck, Chase poked his head through the open door.

"Maintenance has to, um, shut down the magnet in order to fix it," he reported. "The MRI's going to be out of commission for at least two weeks."

Cuddy stared at him in disbelief for a long moment before dropping her face into her hands. Everyone stared at her, jumping slightly when she suddenly pointed in the direction of her office door.

"Out," she commanded, her voice muffled. "Out, before I have to be arrested for mass homicide."

Taking the reprieve they'd been offered, House and his team left the room quickly, before she had time to change her mind. House set off toward his office, the other doctors trailing along behind him.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," House told them, as they walked. "We obviously can't use it on our guy."

"There are other doctors in the hospital!" Chase protested.

"And other patients," Cameron added.

"That certainly helps explain how they can afford all that fancy equipment," House replied. "I'm sure not pulling my weight."

"Is doing nothing an option?" Foreman asked. As the others glared at him, he added, "Maybe the clot will break up on its own. The giddiness seems to have gone away, unaided."

"The blindness hasn't," Chase reminded him.

"Echo his heart," House ordered.

"Looking for what?" Cameron demanded. "The problem's obviously neurological, not cardiovascular."

"The clots are in his brain," House explained. "The source of the clots may not be. Do a complete transthoracic cardiogram; maybe we'll be lucky and nail this down."

Arriving at his office, he went inside, leaving the others to continue on to Joe's room.

They hooked Joe up to the monitors and performed the test.

"Heart's clean," Chase reported.

"Where else could we look?" Cameron asked.

"We could ultrasound his legs, look for a DVT," Foreman suggested.

"What happened to doing nothing?" Cameron asked him.

"I'm just doing my job," Foreman told her.

"Move over, then," Chase told them. "I need room for the ultrasound."

The other two obliged, and he went to remove the echocardiogram sensors from Joe's chest. But, as soon as Chase touched him, Joe started to seize.

"Tachycardia!" Chase called out, "heart rate's one-fifty and rising."

"Get the saline wide open!" Foreman snapped at him, as Chase reached for the IV bags.

"He's bleeding out!" Cameron said, as copious amounts of blood started to gush from their patient's face.

"House wanted to thin his blood, he sure did a good job," Foreman muttered, under his breath.

"His blood pressure's crashing," Cameron reported. "He's going into shock."

"There's intracranial bleeding," Chase added. "We have to relieve the pressure."

In response, Foreman picked up the wall phone and punched in a few numbers.

"This is Dr. Eric Foreman," he snapped, when someone answered. "We need a neurosurgical team and an OR, stat."

Hanging up after hearing the reply on the other end, he turned to his colleagues.

"Someone needs to page House," he told them.

**XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX**

"We can-"

Wilson broke off, suddenly overcome by the urge to burst out laughing. He took a deep breath, schooling his face into a proper expression, before turning back to Conner.

"As I was saying, you can go into hospice care, or we can make you comfortable here-"

His speech was interrupted once again, only this time, several giggles escaped his lips.

"Is something wrong, Dr. Wilson?" Conner asked, worriedly.

"No, no, I'm fine," Wilson hastened to assure him. "Now, we can-"

He'd barely gotten the words out before the dam broke. His self-control snapped, and he burst out laughing. Conner stared at him, absolutely horrified.

"This is just a joke to you?" he asked, rising from his chair, tears glinting in his eyes. "I'm dying and you're laughing about it?"

"No, no, Conner-"

Wilson tried to stand, to reassure the young man, but his body wouldn't cooperate. He collapsed back in his chair, shaking with laughter. Horrified, Conner fled the room, tears streaming down his face.

Feeling no small amount of horror, himself, Wilson fumbled for his pager, managing to press nine-one-one before his shaking hands forced him to drop it. Then, he sat back and waited, helplessly giving in to the laughter that overwhelmed him.

A few minutes later, House burst into his office, and stared at him in confusion and no small amount of irritation.

"Wilson, I've got a patient bleeding to death. What the hell-"

"I'm in trouble, House," Wilson interrupted him, forcing the words out between bursts of laughter. "I think I'm sick."


End file.
